The forms into which the lava flood falls are beautiful. In its descent I watched its action, when it encountered heaps of earth, or stone, or mounds of old lava; the fire stream would seem to halt, as if accumulating its gathering forces, which were rushing army-like out of the crater above, and the fluid would creep around, under, and even through the obstructing mass, looking then like some Alpine cascades I have seen, where the intervening rock is formed of regular and horizontal strata, through which the water forces its way, spouting out in exquisite little jets; this would last a few moments, then the flood, receding for an instant, would come rolling over in one grand sheet of fire, with all the abandonment of a great cataract, then surge în in a quiet, flaming torrent.

Dante came again to our memories, as he does at every step in Southern Italy. Janet and I pictured, in the strange, weird forms of the lava flood, "the fell monster who taints all the world," Geryon, on whose serpent-back Virgil and Dante descended to the fearful Eighth Circle, and as the fire-fall poured on, we repeated with more intense interest than we had ever felt before,

"Naught but the beast was possible to view:

He slowly, slowly wound in many a curve;
Though only from a wind, which upward blew
Against my face, his course I could observe.
Down on the right, I heard the whirlpool seethe,
Where splashing fell the horrible cascade;
And, straining forth my neck to gaze beneath,
At the dread plunge I grew still more afraid,
Such groans I heard, and saw such glare of fires,
Whereat I shrunk, all quivering with affright;
And marked his manner of descent, in spires,

Which until now the darkness kept from sight." *

Gradually we both stopped talking, and as we leaned

* Dr. Parsons's Dante, Canto 17.

back against the ferny bank, enjoying that singular luxury of a fatigue which arises from labor which has gratified the mind while it has wearied the body, we listened to the remarks of the others around us. They were talking of the appearance of the lava. Some compared it to melted gold (which not many of us had ever seen, I fancy); others quoted from Mrs. Jameson the word she applied to it,"trickling"; to me it looked like molten iron, it poured on with the same oily, smooth sweep. Another peculiarity I noticed in this lava fire, its slowness and stillness. It seemed like a furious torrent which was too far off for us to distinguish its rapidity or noise; and yet we were within a few feet of the fiery stream.

At last Mr. Rochester sounded the prudent signal of retreat, which I, for one, most unwillingly obeyed. With lingering steps, looking back all the while, we returned to the Hermitage of San Salvadore, where we re-entered our carriages and proceeded homewards.

Soon after we started, the moon rose on the opposite side of the mountain, the Mediterranean side, filling to the very "beaded brim" this chalice of beauty. The vapor rising from the mountain and lava streams was rosy, and the rocks and trees had a soft, delicate light thrown over them, like an early twilight. I have never seen the Vesuvius light accurately represented in any picture. Painters make it too fiery; on the contrary, there is in the light of burning lava a mellow, rich hue, which is soft and brilliant, with more carmine in its red than vermilion, and golden or rose-colored in its high light, not yellow or orange.

The whole scene was unearthly in its loveliness, and it exercised over my feelings the most beneficent influence. There seemed to be no past or future, no memory of sor

row.

Life's hopes and cares and questionings were suspended, and for a brief season my spirit was lifted, as it were, into a higher range of being, where only the memories of the great and good things of this world existed, into a region of eternal beauty,—for even the ruin and desolation of parts of the country through which we were passing were annihilated by the magical effects of that heavenly light.

"And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon

All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great and old, -

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns."

A complete silence reigned in our carriage. Not until we rolled into Resina did we break the stillness; even then, we said but a few words, and, without apology, each one fell back into that "serene and blessed mood" which the beautiful night had created.

My pleasant dreamings were a little disturbed by entering the dark city, which was as still as if hushed by enchantment; and as the carriages rumbled over the stone flags of the Largo del Mercato, and the Largo del Palazzo Reale, where the gas seemed to burn with a weird and ghostly light, I shivered. It seemed like Nouronihar's and Vathek's descent into the fearful hall of Eblis by huge marble stairs, on each one of which "were planted two large torches." But suddenly we came out on the Santa Lucia, where the whole glorious sight of flaming mountain, rosy light, silvery moonbeams, and glittering waters

burst on me again, and broke most pleasantly this transient illusion, which had been thrown over my excited imagination by the dimly-lighted, gloomy 'streets.

We swept around the Chiatamone into the stately, calm Chiaja, and on up to the Mergellina, where, at three o'clock of this lovely moonlight morning, we routed up our pretty, good-natured portière, feeling very willing, not only to rest our weary bodies, but repose our brains, which had been so stimulated by the sublime sight as to be overcharged with nervous fluid even to painfulness.

H

THREE DEAD CITIES.

NOTICE, on looking over my journal, that I have not recorded one half of the wonderful things which I have been seeing and learning.

On first arriving I gave conscientiously the history of everything which I saw; but this industrious spirit has left me. Churches, cities of the dead, ruins, all the marvellous spots which then stood out so boldly to be noticed, have fallen back under the haze of enjoyment which envelops everything in this lovely place, one's self, one's actions, and one's associates.

Goethe said well of Naples: "You forget yourself and the world here, in going about with persons who think of nothing but of being happy." In Italy we soon grow acclimated in spirit as well as in body, and learn to prefer, as the Italian does, this life of sensation, ease, and pleasure to one of thought and mental labor.

Every cause of annoyance, too, appears to be with drawn from me; it is as if I stood on charmed ground. Even the dreaded letters do not arrive, and I have not felt for months that sharp heart-click which the sight of home writing causes me. Home! what bitter irony and sorrow there is sometimes in that little word. Yes, I seem protected, as by some sweet enchantment, from the power of the dread angel Ahrim, whose triple scourge of